The Bar
by witwit8
Summary: Gail owns a bar and has a lot of tattoos. Holly is a patron who happens to like both of those qualities in a lady. A/U


Title: The Bar

Synopsis: AU where Gail moves out when she's 18 and moves in with Chris. She works at a bar where she meets a patron she just seems to click with. This is an excuse for tattooed and pierced Gail smut.

Part 1/ 2

Rating: t

Author's note: Spoilers for Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Lots of nerdy arguing. Lots of sex because it's what I do. Shout out to Debby who always reviews and has nice things to say. You're swell.

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The tattoos had started the day of your eighteenth birthday, on a dare. Drunk on watered down whiskey, you'd gritted your teeth at the first hiss of the needle against your skin. An hour and a few dozen curses later, you'd been the proud, inebriated new owner of a skull and a rose on your forearm, the colorful wound covered with gauze, a smug smile on your face.

Your friend- a girl whose name you barely remembered- had handed over her cash to the tattoo artist with a flourish, grumbling softly to herself at your tenacity.

"Peck's weren't born to lose," you'd said, stumbling out of the chair.

The next morning, hungover and sat in the kitchen your mother's angry voice ringing in your ears, however, you felt like the loser, her hands pressing painfully at the wrap on your arm.

Reckless, stupid, juvenile, worthless.

Words you'd heard time and time again that that day you decided you would no longer hear.

The words barely registered in your foggy brain and you'd gotten up without a word, hooded eyes blinking rapidly as you walked away for the first time in your life. No words, barely an emotion, as you packed your bags and showed up on your ex-boyfriend's doorstep- newly emancipated from his abusive parents and living in a dumpy two bedroom downtown, away from the shining suburbs of your parent's sprawling estate sat.

And he'd taken you in, gesturing to the open bedroom with a sidelong glance and no questions.

Chris was a lot of things- many of them unfavorable (hence the break up)- but he was loyal and the closest thing you'd had to a friend and he was used to the shitty things people did to one another. So, you'd moved in and gotten a shitty job in (ironically) a shitty cop bar but the pay was decent because you were hot and the guys tipped well even if you were a little cold and never accepted their advances.

You still had a sizable trust fund coming to you when you turned 25 that your grandparents had set up before they died and had been saving ever since you were old enough to at the urging of your parents but you liked to work and you liked to drink so working in a bar seemed to be a perfect marriage.

And with the extra income came the extra ink. The skull and rose still sat in its original place but had been joined by swirling blacks and vast universes- stars and inky constellations.

Your whole left arm, half of the right. The beginnings of a seascape on your thigh, an octopus that stretched upon your ribs.

After the sudden move and the desertion of the Peck dynasty, you'd found yourself sinking into your own interests, your own worth, and the discovery of how much you'd liked it- the buzz of the needle in your ears, the smear of ink against your white, porcelain skin- it filled you in a way you couldn't describe. So, you kept adding and looking and changing.

The nose ring was the result of another dare. Chris this time. You didn't remember specific details and you had warned him that you didn't back down but then there was that smile- the one he gave when he was not to be deterred- and then at 2:30 in the morning, you had a hole in your face, a straight stud through it.

Your eyes had watered but your lips had stretched and his name had come out of your mouth, taunting and teasing as he shook his head and paid the technician, huffing in frustration as you'd told him he was also paying for an extra accessory- a small silver hoop- that you'd exchanged the stud for the next day.

You'd looked in the mirror that morning, nose still pink, arms covered in a myriad of colors and scenes and you'd smiled, chest light, and the world wide open.

And fast forward to now- eight years later.

The trust had kicked in and other than a few trips to a few foreign lands, you'd hoarded it for the purchase you'd been mulling over the last couple of years.

Horace, the owner of the bar, was retiring. And soon. As in as soon as he found someone to but the goddamn hole of a bar.

The check is hot in your hands, the numbers taunting you as they seem to jump off of the paper. A heavy gulp and then a sigh as you look the man who had given you a chance so many years ago.

"Horace," you said, forcing a smile on your face, "If it would be alright... I think I'd like to buy it."

And his brow is furrowing and then you're thrusting the check in his hands and wait for your words and the check sink in before he's gathering you in his arms and laughing his deep laugh in your ear.

"I would have given it to you for half of this, Peck!" He's laughing, not breaking the embrace.

You push him away half heatedly, telling him you didn't do hugs, and he releases most of you but grabs you around the wrist, dragging you out to the busy bar, and suddenly yelling as loud as he can so the crowd of people stop what they're doing and saying and turn their attention to you.

And Horace is telling them he's retiring but he's been blessed enough to have been bought out by you and you're blushing but smiling and the bar is cheering because Horace has declared that drinks are on the house and this is it- you think, your eyes scanning around the ramshackle building- this is a shit hole and needs so much work and you spend too much time there- but the Penny is home, it's yours. And you couldn't be more proud of it.

You spend your night slinging drinks with Chris, his smile wide and his congratulations sincere. And it's perfect- as stupid and cliche as that seems- it is, and you don't think that anything can get any better than it is in this moment.

But then- goddamn it if the universe doesn't contradict you at every turn.

Because then a woman is sliding up the bar and having a seat and you turn to her intent on getting her a drink and your breath stops in your chest. Because this woman? All dark hair and full lips that are quirked into a tired but crooked smile- she's fucking gorgeous and you're never one to really turn and stare but she makes it impossible not to.

"Thanks for the drink," she says, her voice soft and teasing.

And you can feel the crease of confusion on your forehead so she quickly clarifies.

"I heard you're the proud new owner of this place and, therefore, the reason for the free drink."

And then you're ducking your head because of course, Horace and his proud display, but also because you're fairly certain this woman, this-

"Holly," she's introducing herself-

This Holly is flirting with you and while you're not foreign to the flirtations of women, you are foreign to how this one, these words, assaults you.

"Holly," your voice is suddenly uttering, breathlessly.

And she's smiling and nodding and there is a silence- heavy- as you both look at each other, words swirling behind dark eyes, on the tip of your dry tongue.

"I like- your tattoos- if you don't mind me saying. They're- beautiful."

And there it is again, the feeling, The sinking of your stomach and the fire on your cheeks and you choke back a quick thanks but she's not listening, eyes scanning over your arms slowly, memorizing. And then her hand is reaching out and holy fuck, turning your arm over so she can examine every line.

A gasp is out of her mouth as she looks at your newest addition, your favorite character from your favorite series.

"Is that-" she's pointing, eyes wide with glee.

"Willow fucking Rosenburg? Goddamn right it is. It's from-"

"The Wish episode, yeah! Vampire Willow is the best. Holy fuck- Buffy was my favorite growing up. How my parents never knew I was gay is a fucking mystery to me. I had a picture of Sarah Michelle Gellar hanging above my bed for Christ's sake."

And you're staring at her with wide eyes because this girl is cute and so nerdy and makes you feel-

The laughter erupts out of your mouth before you can stop it and what was at first a worried look upon her face relaxes as she joins you.

A few beers served later, Holly and you are in a full-fledged debate over the philosophy of the Chosen One.

"There's no way! Absolutely not- just because it was the ep nominated for an Emmy does NOT make it the best episode!"

You're indignant, watching as she scoffs and tries to defend her choice.

"But- silent! It's terrifying and funny and-"

"All that proves is that the Emmy voters suck and have no sense of taste."

"Oh yeah?" She challenges, eyebrows shooting up, "And which one do you think is the best, O Master of the Whedon Universe?"

You snort. You don't tell her you kind of like the sound of that.

You narrow your eyes, leaning in, suddenly all business.

"Passion. Hands down. That fucking monologue, the way he kills Jenny in front of the window- and the opera music as Giles discovers her in his bedroom. And the fucking voice over at the end when they find out she's dead- and God- vengeful suicidal Giles- the whole thing is a master piece!"

And you're gesturing wildly, the rag in your hand flying into the air with exuberance.

And she's laughing but nodding in what you assume is acquiescence.

"I can see why'd you'd think that," she's smiling, "but I still reserve the right to think that it's Hush."

"And I reserve the right to think that you picking an episode out of the 5th season -that you can even think anything from season 4 on -even holds a candle to anything in the 2nd and 3rd is ridiculous and borderline sacrilegious."

Another set of giggles (fucking giggles- who are you?) and she reaches over the bar to playfully shove at your shoulder and then Chris is giving you the side eye and telling you to wrap up your flirting so you can help other customers.

And it's met with a blush and a regretful glance over your shoulder to your companion who smiles a gentle smile and drains her drink, telling you it was nice to meet you and argue the finer points of pop culture.

She's gone moments later with a lingering glance thrown over her shoulder.

Chris' yelp is loud when your knuckles meet the flesh of his abdomen. He glares at you for a moment before he's asking you what he did to deserve having the wind knocked out of him.

And you can't decide what it is exactly- the fact that he had chased the brunette- Holly- away with his words- or the fact that he called you out for something that you didn't quite understand.

But then, she came back.

A week later, the ink dry on the papers that officially gave you full ownership of the bar, you'd turned to see the woman you couldn't get out of your head on the same stool she had sat the week previously. And despite the slightly fumbling of your first words to her, you'd both quickly fallen back into your rhythm from the week before, this time discussing other shows, other music, other- things. You'd found out she was a doctor, a forensic pathologist, who worked with the local precinct; that she had a brother who lived in Vancouver and that was it- no parents, no other ties.

And you'd told her the abbreviated story about your own family, of Chris, of everything, surprising yourself with your candor. You went a long and performed your other duties, took care of other customers, but always came back when you had a free moment, resuming your easy conversation.

You'd hung out once or twice, numbers traded, at the batting cages and once when you just happened to stroll into the bar one evening off duty and ready to drink the night carelessly away.

And yes, if you were honest, there was a spark and something there that left you wanting and aching in the most curious of places. One morning, a month into knowing her, you'd woken with a cry upon your lips, aching fingers circling at your clit, the ghost of your dreams in the forefront of your mind.

You'd re-imagined it scene by scene that morning in the shower, gasping as you imagined your mouth on hers, your mouth on her clit, licking and sucking until she fell to pieces around you. But you pushed those images away since, bent on keeping the friendship you'd come to relish.

And she never stopped coming by.

It happened every week thereafter. Not always the same night, not always the same drink (but more often than not, Jack and Coke), but she always came back and sat in her same stool and smiled that same crooked smile at you and argued Buffy and Batwoman and every other nerdy thing your hearts desired.

Which is why you're confused one Wednesday a month and a half later when you spot her in the crowd scanning it with interest. She doesn't make a move to come to the bar, simply stands and scans. When she comes up empty, she slowly makes her way toward your counter, finally seeing you and allowing her eye brows to raise is surprise.

"Hey, I didn't know you'd be here! I didn't think you worked Wednesdays."

You're drying a glass and shrugging, confusion and trepidation now swirling in your stomach for an unknown reason.

"I covered for Traci," you said, tone less warm than you usually allowed it to be, "Leo's- her son- is sick and she's got a test tomorrow and needs to study, anyway."

And it's for the first time that you allow yourself to scan over her body as subtly as you can, intent on figuring out why the easiness that usually surrounded you and Holly seemed forced and awkward and-

she's dressed differently than how she usually is, this time in jeans and a plaid button down. Your eyes narrow

Her glasses are gone and she's nervous, you think. Seems to be. You pour her drink out of habit- jack and Coke- and wave her off when she tries to pay.

When you tell her her usual seat is available, she pauses, her face suddenly flushed and her eyes unable to meet your own.

"I'm sort of meeting someone."

Oh.

 _Oh._

You stutter.

"Oh, sorry. Is it- is it someone someone or just someone?"

And that easy smile is back on her face and it seems like relief settles over her shoulders and she shrugs.

"I don't know yet."

And then she catches someone's eye and you look at the other woman across the room and watch as Holly smiles and turns back to you.

"Thanks for the drink," she raises her glass to you and you watch as she walks the short distance to the other (gorgeous- this woman is fucking gorgeous and you're fucking mad about it and you don't know why) woman and engulfs her in a friendly hug.

You stomp behind the bar and find the tequila, pouring a double shot and downing it with a quick hand and bitter grimace.

You scowl for the next hour, your eyes drifting over to the laughing couple. You try not to stare but find your heart lurching and your veins burning as you watch the other woman brush her arm over Holly's arm, laugh a little too loudly at her jokes.

You're caught once or twice, Holly's brown eyes locking onto yours and flashing something- regret, confusion, guilt?- for a brief moment before you forced yourself to look away.

You busy yourself at the bar, taking shots intermittently through the evening. You had yet to take full advantage of the perks of being the owner and in that moment you wanted nothing more than to tuck yourself away in the corner of the bar and shoot the soothing liquid until you didn't feel...things, anymore.

But just as you're reaching once more for the bottle, Holly is suddenly there in front of you, abashed smile on her full, stupid (beautiful) mouth.

"Hey," she breathes, "you busy?"

You look down and busy yourself with pouring a pitcher for the group of guys down the bar and watch as the beer pours into the glass.

"What does it look like? And aren't you? Where's your date?"

You don't acknowledge her any further as you walk yourself slowly down the bar and deliver the Lebalt to the group of frat guys who thanked you with salacious smiles but hefty tips.

It's only after you run out of tasks to perform do you turn to her, wiping any expression off of your face and look at her once more.

And she's caught off guard, you can tell because she stutters and her cheeks become pink and you curse beneath your breath because it shouldn't make you almost fucking swoon to see her like this but she's just so- beautiful and adorable when she's flustered- but you're angry because- well, you don't know exactly but you don't want to make her feel better but you hate the look she's giving you and you finally break and sigh, looking down.

But then it's like she changes her mind and her demeanor changes with it and she's angry, hard lines upon her face.

"What's with the attitude, Peck?" she spits and you wince, "You jealous?"

And you're looking at her like she's grown a second head and your cheeks are flaming and she's peering at you and long moments tick away and neither of you say anything and you see the moment when she realizes what the heavy silence means and then her face goes from angry to shocked and back again. But then she's looking at you with clarity and speaking with a little wonder.

"You're jealous?"

And it's soft and you don't know how to answer, knowing your chance to speak, to deny, was long gone.

And she laughs but it's really disbelieving and sort of confused and tugs at your heart just a little. You watch as she sits down heavily and shakes her head.

"She was nice. But- you know, she said-"

And you're leaning in without even meaning to suddenly needing this information more than you've ever needed anything in your life.

"She said I seemed a little distracted. Tonight. That I wasn't- in it, you know? And I mean, I wasn't. Not when all I could think about was-"

You're confused for a moment but then her eyes are boring into yours and are open and soft and a little sad and they're imploring you to grasp their meaning.

It feels like a bomb drops in your stomach when everything clicks into place. When you begin to understand that you don't just admire Holly and want to talk to her and hang out with her, (and yeah, when you're drunk, think about her in a more than friends, naked kind of way), but that you want to be the only one she sees, laughs with, and yeah- touches. And she's sitting here after a failed date in your bar and looking at you like she wants- something- maybe you and you open your mouth to speak as you feel her hand tentatively rest on yours where in sits on the smooth bar top.

But then Chris once more breaks the moment, calling for a fresh keg and it breaks the revere you have both found yourselves in and you can't- so you mumble your excuse and race to the back to grab the much needed keg, your heart pounding and your head swirling and your breath rushing in your ears.

And you're so focused that you don't hear the footsteps behind you until they're so close and then her hand is gripping your arm and spinning you around and pushing your body against the stone entryway that leads down into the basement and you're face to face, chest to chest, with this woman who you've known for months and seems to have gotten under your skin in a way that just wouldn't seem to disappear.

And you're gasping at the feel of her and watching as her eyes dip down to your lips and she's apologizing, her words all in a burst, because she "doesn't really know what she was thinking and she just shouldn't have followed you," even as she's staring at them and you don't fucking care because all you can think now is that she looked at your lips and you know exactly what all of this must mean.

You watch as she dips her head slightly but she's not coming quickly enough so you dig your hands in her hair with a quick pull and finally (finally? How long had you really been waiting and wanting without not fucking knowing?) crash her lips onto yours, moaning at the first taste, and again when she gasps as your fingers twist and tug and your tongue takes advantage of the situation breaking free past the barrier of those full, soft lips and drifting over hers to stroke once, twice, before retreating, breathing heavily, only to have it swallowed as she chases it, twisting, tangling her warm tongue with yours once more in your own mouth.

She bites at your bottom lip, soothes the sting with her tongue and moves her own hands into the short, peroxide blonde strands on top on your head and wrenches it to the side, mouth detaching to latch onto the side of your neck.

You gasp loudly into the hollow of the corridor and find your hips bucking into the hard body in front of you, gritting your teeth against the onslaught of arousal that her lips and teeth and tongue render upon your body, against the slight pain of the stone against your back, and groan as her lips and tongue trace a path your ear, biting down on the soft skin of the lobe before soothing it with her tender tongue, speaking slowly and deliberately.

"I wanted it to be you tonight," she's whispering, lips now latched on the soft spot of skin behind your ear that pulses as she continues to speak and move against you.

"I wanted it to be you who was touching me, making me laugh. I wanted to be wondering at the end of the night, whether you'd let me kiss you, whether you'd invite me in."

And then her thigh is sliding in between your legs and pushing up and into you and you're sort of shocked but not enough that you don't immediately respond, hips sinking into the firm touch, lips trapped by a sharp set of white teeth.

"But God- I've wanted that- and this-"

And your head is thudding against the stone wall behind you and you're shutting your eyes and your hips are starting a slow rhythm against her thigh as she begins to push, drive forward, and you gasp a stuttered groan when she lifts your left leg around her hip, allowing herself to grind even harder, get even closer, and you're not sure how you manage to find words but spill them out anyway, the tone of them playful but breathy and barely put together.

"Bit fast, don't you think?"

You're smiling, arms now wrapped around warm shoulders, moving your head so it's in the crook of her neck and you use your new position to get more involved in the movement, rotating your hips once, twice, before sinking wholly into the thrust of Holly's leg, lips stretching ever wider as you hear the woman in front of you gasp at the sight.

"I mean, on the first date?"

And she's laughing a bit at your implication but then she's dragging your chin up until your eyes meet hers, and sliding her hand to your cheek and drawing your forehead to hers, the breath shuttering out of her as her eyes close.

"I have wanted you since the day I met you," she's breathing, "For months I have thought about nothing but you and I told myself that it was stupid, that I'd never get the chance to have you, but there was a small part of me that thought that, maybe- so I told myself that if I ever got the chance with you, I'd take it first and think about it later. Because the way I want you, Jesus. Gail-"

But you can't take it anymore and you surge back into her, the fire her words had ignited in you raging through your body and you're shifting your hips and pulling her to you with renewed fervor and you can hear her breathy grunts as they echo in your ear and add to the fire raging in your guts and you're slipping your tongue into her mouth and biting at her lips and scraping your nails against her naked back when they finally slip underneath the fleece of the shirt you'd been staring at all night.

It's all too much but not fucking enough and moments later, when her mouth is once more latching onto the side of your neck and biting and sucking, and your hips have started their steady rhythm once more that you decide that you don't just want this one night, this one haphazard moment in a bar back alley to define you and you're trying to figure out how to speak that when Chris' voice once more booms in your ears, bellowing for the keg you were supposed to be retrieving.

You feel her still, the words shocking her system and leaving you both panting and rigid in the entryway. A few more moments, another yell.

And she's extracting herself from you and adjusting her glasses and looking down and you feel your heart lurch because you don't want her to go but you need to get back to work but you don't want her to just write this off-

And you're cupping her face before you know what's happening and saying her name and telling her that you want to talk, want to...

Words leave you and you swallow thickly as you get an idea, the intimacy of the gesture not lost on you as you're suddenly pressing a key in her palm.

"If you don't have anything to do tonight," you're breathing, your hands once more cupping her face once rid of the key, "I'd like to- see you later. That's the, uh, key to my apartment. You know that. Not your first rodeo- um. Make yourself comfortable. You know where everything is. I'll be there in a bit and- we can have a drink?"

And it's quiet and you're all of a sudden self-conscious and trying to plan how to back peddle out of your decision, take back your idiotic words.

But she's nodding when you look back up to make your excuses and kissing you once more, sighing, and you're getting lost when Chris' footsteps begin to loom and then she's off with barely a backward glance and you're staring but then moving because Chris is looking at you and the fleeing brunette with an expression somewhere between rage and bemusement and you're off to roll the keg in and please the cops that were flooding the bar after third shift.

You take the first half hour relatively well; the rush and the blur of the heavy Wednesday night crowd distracts you enough so that you don't linger on the woman waiting for you in your apartment. So you don't think about the way she felt against you, the way her hands moved against your breasts, the way her tongue-

An hour and after your and Holly's haphazard encounter, you're grinding your teeth and growling at the thinning crowd.

Another 15 minutes and the bar is almost deserted, something about a situation downtown and your stomach lurches a bit for a moment as you think about those you cared about, once upon a time before your rebellion and your recklessness had tarnished the Peck name and therefore they had stripped you of it. Think of your brother and your mother and father and their unwillingness to speak to you even now, years later. It stings when you allow yourself to think of it so most of the time you don't and when the bar doesn't see any signs of picking up, you drift out of the haphazard recesses of your mind and throw the rag on your shoulder at Chris' face, telling him to lock up and to bother you unless there was an emergency.

And then you're swallowing and trying to capture your breath because you're walking up the stairs to your apartment and Holly- Holly who you'd kissed and touches and writhed against merely an hour ago- was in it and- Jesus. This- the racing of your heart, the tremble in your hands- it feels like something you've never felt. It feels like the beginning or maybe the end or maybe- maybe something you've never known but something that Holly alone will define for you. It's different and it fucking terrifies you and makes you want to run, but-

You take a deep breath and try not to let your hands shake as they come up to twist the knob.

This is it.

* * *

The next part is halfway written. Please let me know what you think and pardon any mistakes.


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